Chapter 307

Lights in the data centre glowed in rows, blue light casting on the wall like the ring of shadow from burning mosquito incense on a summer night. Dong Xu sat before the Main Control Console, tapping the Enter key; the screen spat out a string of Data Stream, dense repost records scrolling up as fast as the old man at the Hutongkou rolling hawthorn strips.

He narrowed his eyes, dragged the progress bar to 8:17 p. m. last night; that family gathering video had just been pushed to the hot search. On screen a family sat around the table eating, the child raised chopsticks laughing, the elder picked vegetables, background music an old tune so familiar anyone could hum a couple lines. It looked normal, but among those who reposted, over sixty percent triggered an abnormal brainwave within three minutes of reposting—not the violent shaking of epilepsy, but a slight wave like the head sinking when dozing off.

"Just that?" Dong Xu lit a cigarette, "The virus is hidden in 'Dad slipped me some braised pork'?"

He didn't rush to delete it or call the police; instead he downloaded the video and dragged it into the analysis box. The system began to deconstruct frames, slicing the 30‑fps footage into fragments, isolating the audio band, and compared it with Zhao Jianguo's voiceprint sample archived in the previous chapter. The two traces initially didn't match—one flat, one jittery—but when the footage reached the twelfth second—the elder laughed and said, "Eat more, grow strong"—the two lines suddenly locked together.

Peak values coincided, frequencies matched, even the barely perceptible tremor in the tail sound was identical.

Dong Xu stubbed out his cigarette in the tin box at the desk corner, voice low: "Found it."

He turned and shouted to the back: "Zhao Chen, is the emotion sensor hooked up?"

Zhao Chen was squatting beside the cabinet plugging in wires; hearing the call he sprang to his feet, still gripping a data cable. "Hooked up, I pulled five thousand samples—all local users who scrolled their phones from 8 to 10 p. m. last night." He walked over, slapped the tablet onto the desk: "Look at this."

On the screen was a 3‑D plot: time on the X‑axis, emotion intensity on the Y‑axis, propagation probability on the Z‑axis. Several hot spots clustered in the "nostalgia + mild anxiety" region, especially those who reposted the video, nearly all in the state of "missing home but a bit annoyed with work."

"It picks its victims," Zhao Chen said. "Not everyone who sees it gets hit. You need a vacant spot in your heart for it to slip in."

Dong Xu nodded, flagged that gathering video as a high‑risk source, labeled it "Emotional Resonance‑type Information Pollution", then opened the protection system's underlying rule‑edit page. "So we won't let it spread. Not by blocking content, but by filtering emotion."

He said, done is done, pulled up the firewall logic tree, added a submodule under the "Social Propagation" branch named "Psychological Threshold Filter". The rule is simple: any information carrying strong nostalgia, overlaid with anxiety or loneliness, is automatically downgraded before push; if it also matches the voiceprint signature, it goes straight to the review pool.

Zhao Chen stood beside him watching, then let out a surprised "Huh?"

A prompt popped up in the lower‑right corner of the system interface:

【Detected new protective logic construction completed】

【Network defense specialization unlocked】

Before he could click to see details, the emotion sensor's feedback curve jerked—at the moment the new rule went live, abnormal fluctuations in the city's social network dropped by forty‑one percent.

"Really works," Zhao Chen laughed. "Are we using psychology as antivirus software?"

"What else?" Dong Xu leaned back, stretched, "Before we fought viruses by checking virus databases; now we must learn to read people's hearts. The more you miss home, the easier 'home' deceives you."

As his words fell, the door pushed open and the Special Forces Captain poked half his body in, holding a tablet, his olive‑green training uniform still dusted with gray from a field patrol.

"You guys done here?" he asked as he approached, glancing at the blockade report on his own gear, "Oh, downgrade processing? Not a straight network cut?"

"Who would curse you for cutting the net?" Dong Xu pointed at the screen, "We tweaked the recommendation algorithm so people can't see it, not stop them from posting. Low key, no trouble."

The Special Forces Captain stared at the line "Psychological Threshold Filter" for two seconds, then whistled: "From now on, do we have to go through security to scroll Moments?"

"It's not content screening, it's emotion filtering," Zhao Chen picked up, "For example, if you like something while holding a grudge, the system might block your repost."

"What about that health article I forwarded to my mom yesterday—does that count as high‑risk behavior?" the Special Forces Captain grinned, "She said if I don't forward it I'll suffer divine retribution."

The three chuckled softly, but in the quiet data centre their voices rang clear. The lights stayed blue, the machine fans spun, and the curves on the screen had smoothed out, no longer jumping.

Dong Xu rose, flexed his wrist, turned to Zhao Chen and asked, "Backup handed over?"

"Done," Zhao Chen patted his pocket, "the encrypted drive is with me; I'll send it to the archives shortly."

"All right," Dong Xu removed his work badge and laid it on the desk, "the job's done."

The Special Forces Captain didn't leave, stood in the doorway and glanced at the global alert level—dropped from Level 1 to Level 2, the red flag turned yellow, showing "Risk controllable."

"If another soft‑blade virus shows up later," he waved the tablet, "I'll still come by for a chat."

"Always welcome," Zhao Chen said with a smile, "Next time bring some melon seeds—watching data is more gripping than a TV drama."

Dong Xu had already reached the corridor, his steps on the anti‑static floor giving a faint squeak. Dusk was falling; the Tech District's streetlights blinked on one by one, casting a pale yellow glow on the glass curtain wall. Zhao Chen followed half a step behind, clutching the tiny black storage disk like a freshly won game piece.

The Special Forces Captain stood motionless at the command building doorway, head tilted to the sky. The clouds had thinned, revealing a slash of sunset, red as if someone had accidentally knocked over a bottle of ink.

He lowered his gaze again to the tablet, verified the blockade was stable, then tucked the equipment under his arm and turned toward the patrol vehicle.

Dong Xu's steps didn't pause, Zhao Chen remained silent; the two walked one after the other across the parking lot toward the residential area. The streetlights stretched their shadows long, occasionally sliced by tree shade, then reconnected under the next lamp.

The data centre's door slid shut and locked automatically. Inside only the hum of machinery remained, and the tranquil green line on the screen.

Zhao Chen suddenly stopped, glanced back.

On the main screen, the latest log entry floated quietly:

【Psychological firewall operating normally】

【Today intercepted high‑risk information transmission paths 3,217 times】

【No breach incidents】

He said nothing, turned, and kept walking.

Dong Xu had reached the intersection, lifted his wrist to check his watch.

Seven forty‑six.

Dinner time.